


Lonely, Drunk and Beautiful

by CedarTheBarefoot



Series: We’re All Fools and Worthless Liars [6]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Accidental Cuddling, Acts of Kindness, Be nice to Kieran, Drinking, Fear, Frustration, Implied John Marston/Arthur Morgan - Freeform, Kissing, M/M, Minor Violence, Morning Wood, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Touching, chapter 2 spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:54:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22205188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CedarTheBarefoot/pseuds/CedarTheBarefoot
Summary: “My parents always taught me that sometimes folks find comfort where they can. Or where they’re meant to. And it ain’t nobody’s business but their own.”After “A Quiet Drink” and Arthur’s gone off to help rescue Sean. John ain’t too fond of being left behind again. He won’t stand for it much longer.
Relationships: John Marston/Arthur Morgan
Series: We’re All Fools and Worthless Liars [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1211598
Comments: 6
Kudos: 110





	1. Lonely

**Author's Note:**

> Things are gonna go a little quicker soon. It’ll just be making literary stops along the way of the canononical story. Snippets and pieces. You don’t necessarily have to know the canonical story but it’ll certainly help.
> 
> Be wary of spoilers, but I’ll do my best to tag properly. I don’t begrudge anyone toddling along, avoiding the main story. 
> 
> A little bit of a filler for the first chapter and we’ll get a little something in the second!

John nursed a cup of coffee and the can of peaches he’d liberated from Pearson’s wagon. It was far easier to eat now. His face didn’t hurt as much. There was still a part of him that missed the mix of alcohol and morphine that Swanson had kept him in a cloud of during the worst of his recovery.

But he wouldn’t let himself become like the good Reverend. 

He ran his fingertips carefully along the scarring on his face. Some parts were still tender to the touch. Red. Just shy of an infection. Luckily reflective surfaces weren’t too common in camp. He hadn’t unwrapped the signal glass Dutch had given him for quite a while. Wasn’t planning to any time soon either.

John reached under his collar and felt gingerly along his shoulder. The bullet had left only a graze, luckily. He thought of how Arthur had smeared salve over it, calling him a bonehead for getting shot. 

_“Least I didn’t get stabbed.”_

_“Still a bonehead.”_

Leaning back in his chair, John let his long legs stretch out, and folded them at the ankle. There was a distinct feeling of happiness. Pleased with the gentle teasing. How his help had so easily been accepted. Not to mention the secret way Arthur’s eyes had lingered on his own half naked body. 

It wasn’t often John felt too good about his appearance...it was nice to be reminded of the feeling he got when someone...when Arthur looked at him like that. Made him feel wanted. 

Feeling right pleased with himself, John got up to refill his coffee. The oatmeal was finally on, so he got himself a portion of that too. Poured the last of the peaches right in. Sugar was expensive, so peaches made it less bland. Still better than any sticky bowl of oats he’d gotten in any town, anywhere.

John hadn’t been sitting back down for more than a minute, enjoying the quiet before he looked up and saw the O’Driscoll standing amongst the horses. 

The young man was stroking the Count’s face, looking quickly away when he noticed John’s gaze. 

He knew that their new stable boy didn’t eat with camp last night...didn’t eat at all. He’d stayed out amongst the horses. Looked like he slept out there too. And there was no stew left when John finally turned in, relenting that Arthur and Lenny weren’t returning anytime soon from their “quiet drink.”

Kieran glanced nervously up, and raised his brow in surprise when John waved him over. But he did as he was instructed. He carried himself like a man who’d spent the better part of a month tied to a tree and tormented. It took him some time. Fighting off obvious lightheadedness and nausea from his hunger. Much like the prelude to yesterday’s shootout.

John, the type to get straight to the point, asked, “Why didn’t you eat last night?”

“I-I,” the O’Driscoll stammered, wringing the hem of his dirty shirt between his hands, “No one said I could...I ain’t exactly well-liked around here.” 

John chewed a peach thoughtfully. He didn’t want to, but he felt indebted to the boy. He’d saved Arthur’s life. Waving to Pearson’s pot, John muttered, “Help yerself then if you need a goddamned invitation.” 

Kieran looked at John in surprise. They looked at each other for a long moment before John shook his head and tucked back into his breakfast, “Pff...suit yerself.” 

That got him moving at least. Pearson grunted at him as a greeting, nose deep in his own coffee. And when he’d straightened after taking a small helping, John pushed out the chair closest to him with his boot. 

It was another silent moment before Kieran sat. Stunned. Before he picked up his spoon, John said through a mouthful, “Slow.”

“Huh?”

Swallowing, John repeated, “Slow. Eat it slowly. You been starving. You’ll make yerself sick if ya eat too fast or eat too much.” Didn’t John know that personally. 

He recalled being told that by Hosea when he’d first been brought to their camp around the age of twelve. Given food while the rope burn around his little neck still ached and stung. His lungs still burning. Not listening. Crying. A fifteen or sixteen year old Arthur rubbing his back, holding his forehead while he vomited. Softly berating him for not listening. But also saying soothing things like, _“S’alright, Johnny.”_

That low, comforting tone that had grown lower and gravelly as the years passed and the cigarettes burned. The timber that made John feel seen and lonely at the same time.

So Kieran ate slowly. 

John knew the meal was nothing to dance a jig for, but the younger man looked on the verge of tears. Sighing quietly through his nose, he scraped the last peach into Kieran’s bowl.

He considered it in surprise for a long moment before speaking, just as John was standing. “How come...not that I ain’t grateful...but the last time you looked at me...you threw a rock at my head.” 

John tittered, placing his dish and spoon in the washbin, “Yeah, I did.” He brushed his hands off on his trousers and went back to the table. Leaning up in Kieran’s personal space.

The new stable boy flinched away slightly, a look of fear in his eyes. During his time at the tree, folks had mostly ignored him. Sure, he’d been roughed up more than once or twice. But John recognized a person accustomed to abuse. Someone who’d come to expect it. Their gang hadn’t been kind to him, but he steadfastly believed that Colm O’Driscoll was worse. 

He weren’t broken though. Not yet. And that was why he was still alive. 

John pointed a firm finger down at him, “This don’t mean that I like you, or that I trust you.”

“I-I thought not.”

“But you saved Arthur. I s’pose that counts for somethin’,” then he shrugged, “‘Sides, if you turn out to be a rat, I can just kill you anyways, O’Driscoll.”

“I ain’t,”

“Yeah, yeah, you ain’t no O’Driscoll. But ya still smell like one.” 

Before Kieran could piece together a reply, there was a vague shout down the trail. And then an answering shout. A moment later, Lenny appeared on horseback looking low and miserable. 

“The hell happened to you?” John asked, striding over to help the young man dismount. 

Groaning, Lenny held fast to John’s shoulder and leaned against his horse. “Went for a ‘quiet’ drink with Arthur.” 

John smirked sideways, but quit it real fast when he felt the sting in his face, “Been there. C’mon, sit down. Get some water in ya, it’ll make it easier.” He led his friend over to a table. Kieran was quickly on his feet, “I’ll uh, I’ll take care’uh yer horse, Mister.” 

Lenny looked after the former captive and raised an eyebrow at John who brought him some water. He shook his head, “Long story.”

“I’m sure,” Lenny muttered, drinking gratefully. 

John sat down again, and stretched out his legs. “Pardon me for sayin’ so, but you look like shit. What’d you two get up to last night?”

Lenny shook his head, rubbing at his temples, shielding his eyes from the rising sun, “Well, we woke up in jail this morning.” 

John’s visage grew serious, “Jail? Where’s-”

Lenny waved a hand, “Don’t worry, I paid us out. Arthur just wasn’t feelin’ up to riding back yet. He drank more than I did.” 

Settling down, John rubbed at his leg, feeling a little sore, “Got any recollection of what put the two of ya in jail?” He smiled, gentler this time, “Just so’s I can determine whether or not it’s safe for me to poke fun at both of your expenses?”

Lenny snorted, and slowly started putting together the evening for John, what he remembered at least. John kept him watered and got him some breakfast in return. While Pearson worked on the dishes, he listened, chortling at the bits he found amusing. They’d all missed quite the wild party if anything Lenny said was true. 

Arthur wasn’t always good with words, and he was quick to anger, particularly when he was drunk. But he also had himself a rare ability to make friends out of enemies when the odds were stacked against him. That was partly Hosea’s teachings. 

But of course no one, including Arthur himself, realized how charming he naturally could be...

“It was fun though. I didn’t think Arthur could dance.”

John laughed, “When he’s been drinkin’ he can. He can be a whole different person when he’s tying it on. Shoulda seen him when we was younger. He talked more back then.”

Lenny gave pause, studying him for a long moment, “You know...we did get to do some talking now that I think of it.”

John smiled again, trying not to feel jealous. It weren’t Lenny’s fault that Arthur was the way he was. “Yeah? What about?”

Lenny glanced at Pearson who didn’t appear to be paying attention anymore as he chatted with Uncle who had emerged from a pile of maize sacks. “He told me one of the reasons why he was never married,” he answered quietly.

John blinked. Lenny was looking at him in a soft, understanding way. Saying something without saying it. He didn’t quite understand. There was one obvious reason why the man had never married. It was hard to have a family when you were on the run. 

Eliza and Isaac were another more private reason. It wasn’t so much that Arthur had been head over heels for her, but he’d certainly cared. He remembered the blond slipping away for a week or two once in a while. Off to see her and his little son. And then there’d been Mary Gillis, the woman who mighta convinced Arthur to go straight if her family were more accepting. It pained John to admit to himself that he‘d been a little jealous in a way. But he understood. He didn’t think Arthur really ever healed from their deaths or from Mary breaking off their engagement. 

“And what reason is that?” He asked Lenny, choosing his words carefully. 

“He, uh...well,” Lenny scratched at the back of his neck. He glanced around camp. Folks were starting to stir. Miss Grimshaw was already getting after some of the women. He took a deep breath and leaned in. John made a show of leaning in as well. 

“It ain’t really my place to say, but he weren’t...well...I think you should talk with him.”

“What for, Lenny?” John asked lowly, staring directly into his young friend’s eyes. He was no stranger to caution. Words could ruin a man much quicker than a gun. He wasn’t sure where this was going, and it might not be any place good. 

“Well, I suppose some things kinda make sense now?” Lenny replied softly, carefully watching him, “About you and...him.”

John silently grabbed the younger man by the collar, his jaw growing tight and serious.

“I won’t tell nobody, I promise,” Lenny murmured, much calmer than a man in his position had any right being. But Lenny was always fairly level-headed. His daddy had wanted him to be a lawyer for a reason. “My parents always taught me that sometimes folks find comfort where they can. Or where they’re meant to. And it ain’t nobody’s business but their own.” 

Lenny hadn’t been with them too long, but everyone liked him. He was barely twenty and he already seemed to know and understand more about the world than he ought to. It was easy to be on his side, to be friends with him, and to talk to him. John burned to know just _exactly_ what Arthur had told him. Whatever it was, it seemed it was enough. 

“I promise,” Lenny murmured again. 

John let go of him, feeling hopeful. But also filled with dread. He sorely hoped that Arthur had drank enough to not remember whatever he and Lenny had talked about. Things were just starting to settle between them. They’d been getting closer again. But this…? This might make Arthur push him away again. 

The man had a fear in him. It was a logical fear. But they were far more likely to be killed in a shootout than getting their necks stretched for perversion. So what did it matter?

“Where’d you say you left him?” John asked. 

“Still in Valentine. He was sitting on the porch outside the Sheriff’s office.”

Saying nothing more, John left Lenny there and went about saddling his horse, and filling his rifle boot. Kieran looked at him curiously as he hauled a bale of hale past him. But he said nothing. John was grateful for it. His mind was all in a whirl and he wasn’t in much of a mood for talking to anyone but one person. They _had_ to talk now. 

He rode out of camp. It was warmer out from under the trees. There was hardly a cloud in sight and the sky was so damn blue. The road was empty but for a single man with his horse and wagon. John urged Old Boy past him and rode into town. Looking carefully at each horse he passed, searching every front stoop. 

Arthur wasn’t there. 

There was one horse he did recognize, however. It was Silver Dollar, hitched up outside the gunsmith’s. 

“Morning, son,” Hosea said, exiting the shop and closing the door politely behind him. He was carrying a freshly-purchased box of bullets.

“What’re you doing here?” John asked, patting Old Boy’s neck. 

“Just picking up some supplies. Thinking about hunting some rabbit!” He put the box in his saddlebags and tipped his hat back, “What’re you doing out and about so early?” 

Chewing his lip, John shrugged, “Well, Lenny came back into camp.”

“I know, I passed him on the trail.” He chuckled, “Poor boy of his build shouldn’t be trying to keep up with a man of Arthur’s size.” 

“You seen Arthur at all?” 

The old man nodded and gestured to the road out of town, “Yeah. He’s gone off to meet up with Charles, Javier and Trelawney. They’re going out to find Sean this afternoon.” 

Eyes widening, John opened his mouth to argue but thought better of it. The gang had already made themselves known a few times during their visits to Valentine, no point stirring up more trouble.

“They’re going back _there_?” He asked, keeping his voice even and low.

Hosea nodded grimly, “Yes. But they’ll be careful. Charles and Javier are good at jobs like that. Real quiet. Arthur’s in good company.”

Grinding his teeth, the younger replied, “Coulda damn well asked me to come.”

Hosea took up the reins mounted his horse. He turned her about to face John and he said gently, “Son, you’re still limping.”

“Hardly!” John growled, urging Old Boy to follow when the old man turned Silver Dollar out of town. 

Hosea glanced downward, “No? Well, your leg is botherin’ you enough that you’re rubbing at it like that when you think no one’s looking.”

John pulled his hand away, having hardly noticed that he’d been touching it at all. “I’m better enough as it is. What’s to stop me from riding out there after them?” 

“You’d be putting yourself and them in more danger,” Hosea answered honestly. 

John paused, shocked that the old man had spoken so plainly. Had spoken like that at all. It had to come out of someone else’s mouth eventually. John was a burden, and he knew it. 

Sighing, the old man adjusted his hat, “Don’t take it personally, John. Job like that needs only a few men to go smoothly. Needs’em to be quick and quiet. I’m sorry, son, but I’m telling you, riding out after’em would be a mistake. They can handle it.”

John worked his jaw, turning away from the subtle, knowing look the old man was giving him. Like he knew everything worth hiding. Just like always. He knew Hosea spoke sense, but it was difficult to accept. He felt overcrowded in camp, and frustrated...and weirdly lonesome?

“Why don’t you come hunting with me, son?” 

“Ain’t we supposed to be doin’ like Dutch says? Bringing in money?” John muttered. He regretted saying it. Made him sound like a young boy again. Petulant and raising up his hackles at every turn. Like the upstart little brat he knew he used to be. 

But Hosea took it in stride, shrugging, “What, you think he’s gonna say no to roasted rabbit?”

John cracked a weak smile, “I ‘spose not. Guess I’ll keep you company, old man. Wouldn’t want you to get scared again.” 

The elder snorted, shaking his head, “‘Spose I’ll never live down that bear.” They took a turn up towards the hills.


	2. Drunk and Beautiful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sean’s back.
> 
> Everything is supposedly meant to get better. It’s easy to believe it when the whole camp is on the drunk, and having something of a party. 
> 
> Booze sure does make things easier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some amiable drinking, innappropriate singing, and some...intimacy? And mild voilence.
> 
> Here we go.

It had been some time since camp had actually had a party. A real intentional celebration. There hadn’t been much reason to be festive after Blackwater. Poverty and hunger wasn’t an ideal situation. They’d lost quite a bit. But now they had something back.

It just happened to be Sean fucking McGuire. 

The lad’s mouth was too big for his size. While that was an annoyance, it was also one of his charms. He’d look at anyone from under those long eyelashes, faceful of freckles and ginger hair and people wanted to make exceptions for him. Exceptions like one more warm beer, one more pull of whiskey, one more nasty song. 

Sean talked a lot, but at least he kept everyone in good spirits. Even if most folks were laughing derisively at his so-called charms. It was easy to joke how everything would be okay and that their hearts couldn’t possibly be broken with good ol’ Sean McGuire around.

To say that folks were soused by the time Arthur returned would be an understatement. And they were real persuasive at getting him to join instead of slipping quietly off to his tent for some shuteye. 

Booze made things feel easier. Talking. Taking the needling over his and Lenny’s exploits the previous evening. Eating. Playing cards. Drinking more. Singing impolite songs. Being amiable with folks.

Sitting next to John Marston.

On the second round of Javier’s repertoire of saloon ditties, Arthur sat down on the log. Right beside him. Tucked his knee up next to his like it was nothing. Pretended like it was nothing. Like it could be nothing.

It _was_ nothing…but it just wasn’t. 

At John’s look of surprise, Arthur cocked an amused eyebrow and took a swig from his third beer. Then he turned away from the singing to interject in Sean’s dramatic, drunken retelling of his own rescue. 

“They had you strung up by yer boots, you did no such thing!”

There was a chorus of laughter. 

“Yer _correct_ , Arthur Morgan! But damn it all if Seany wouldna if he’d’a been able!” 

More laughter. 

John shook his head, nursing some whiskey he’d pilfered for himself when he’d gone looking for something stronger than beer, “Hope you dropped him on his dumb head cuttin’ him down.”

Arthur snorted and set his now empty bottle down beside his boot, “You know? I did.” He reached towards the fire and ripped a leg off of the remaining rabbit roasted on a spit. 

Apparently, John and Hosea had gone on a fairly successful hunt. After spending an afternoon tracking and getting shot at, Arthur was almost envious of the calm, quality time he’d surely spent with the old man. 

“You okay?” 

Arthur paused, chewing, taking in the soft question. “Tired.” He bumped their knees together, licking his fingers, “You?”

“Well,” John cleared his throat, pointedly looking down at their legs. “I ain’t been shot at today.” 

“Good.” Arthur murmured, offering him one of the bones. 

John quietly took it. It was something that could have seemed of small consequence. But John had grown up sharing food with Arthur. Being looked after in some way, and learning to do the same in return. He cracked the bone between his teeth to get at the marrow within. 

Habits of a starving boy sometimes followed him into manhood. Arthur had no fondness for marrow, so it was no loss to him to give it to John. He grimaced, shaking his head, “Still dunno how you eat that,” and tossed the last of the bones into the fire. 

John smiled quietly to himself. 

After that, he watched fondly as the big man stumbled around, checking in on the others. Like he always did. Always looking after everyone else before himself.

Singing along. Listening to every word, or at least politely pretending to, nodding along, sharing a drink. John pushed down a spike of jealousy when he danced with Mary Beth. Laughed to himself when Sean slung an arm around the blond’s shoulders and loudly spoke of his excitement at being back. According to the boy, things were going to get so much better at having Sean around again, and they all had Arthur to thank for it. 

But sometime later, somehow, the big man was out of sight. 

John waited for a little while. Glancing around every so often. Trying not to wonder. Trying not to worry. He wasn’t in his cot, so he hadn’t gone to bed. He wasn’t amongst them. He had been, but suddenly he wasn’t. 

John gave pause once rising to his feet, to ensure his balance. He hadn’t thought he’d drank _that_ much. The empty bottles near his boots told a different story. 

When he turned, he immediately met Abigail’s eyes. She was sitting, playing cards by lantern light with a bottle beside her. Lenny seemed to be losing, and Mary Beth and Tilly were teasing him over it. 

Subtly, she glanced off towards the trees behind the scout fire, and then went back to playing, dealing herself two cards. 

John took the hint and headed in that direction. He paused by the shrinking scout fire, and knelt down. Couldn’t have it dying out. With a stick, he carefully moved some of the embers around, and stacked two blocks on top. Meanwhile, the others loudly launched into the chorus of Ring Dang Do’ for what seemed like the seventh time. 

“Followin’ me, Johnny?” 

Startling, John looked up as Arthur emerged from the woods. He was doing up the last button on his trousers and adjusting his gunbelt. Must’ve gone off for a piss. 

“Just keepin’ ya outta trouble,” John smirked, carefully placing two more blocks of split wood on top of the other two. He glanced up to watch the other place a cigarette loosely between his lips, and cup a lit match to it. “Wakin’ up in a jail cell makes you grumpy.” 

Arthur scoffed, waving the flame out on the match, “So you’d know all about keepin’ outta trouble, eh, Scarface?”

John said nothing at that, self-consciously turning the marred side of his face away.

The minute change in his expression and posture was not lost on Arthur despite his inebriation. He watched John needlessly stir a stick in the coals of the scout fire. The singing prevented any real silence in camp, but he felt the sudden quiet between them keenly. After a long moment, he slowly breathed out a voluptuous curl of smoke and murmured, “Sorry.”

The campfire cracked, throwing a couple of orange sparks on the ground. One went out without a fuss, but the other glowed persistently until Arthur stepped on it. 

John pushed himself up to stand, and had to brace a foot behind him. Instinctively, Arthur took his arm to help him up. The two men looked at one another for a moment before he let him go. 

John shook his head, looking down into the fire, “I wish you’d asked me to go with you today.”

Arthur blew a stream of smoke to one side, shaking his head, “Had to do a lot of runnin’ on foot, uphill and downhill. No offense intended, but you woulda slowed us down. But you’re healing up decent, John, just be patient.”

“I worry ‘bout you,”

Arthur snorted, “Yer startin’ to sound like Hosea.”

“That such a bad thing?” John shrugged, helping himself to the cigarette from Arthur’s mouth like he’d done so many times before. But they hadn’t had that sort of relationship in a long while. He couldn’t believe what he’d just done, horror building in his stomach. He watched the bigger man warily for his reaction. 

It didn’t make him angry exactly. It was a reminder just how annoying the little shit could be. There were times Arthur had let him get away with things like that, with only a glare. Other times he’d give him a shove, or a cuff upside the head. Right then, Arthur did neither, but watched the scarred lips suck on the smoke. 

John noticed. He swallowed down the lump forming in his throat. It was only then that he realized how close they were standing. 

So, he reached out and touched Arthur’s arm. The bigger man’s stillness prompted him to continue. Carefully, he slid his palm up to the shoulder. Chest hair was just peeking out of his shirt with the two top buttons being undone. 

Unable to resist, John smoothed the pad of his thumb slowly back and forth against his exposed collarbone. He watched Arthur’s throat bob as he swallowed. A shudder slid down his spine when he felt fingers tangle sharply in the hem of his coat. 

He waited to be pushed away. To be hit, even. 

Instead, a gentle, calloused hand came up to gingerly cup the stitched up side of John’s face, barely touching. To his credit, the younger didn’t flinch away. He couldn’t, and he wouldn’t. He knew the soft ground they were treading on. They’d been there before. It was painfully enticing and full of tension. Fear of never knowing what would happen next. 

He murmured, “Arthur?”

“What?”

A whisper left him then, so quiet that Arthur almost didn’t hear him, “Kiss me.”

It held there in the short distance between them. Filling the air. Making it feel heavy, and warm even as goosebumps rose along their limbs. 

Arthur took a deep, steadying breath and shook his head, “I can’t.” But he didn’t pull away. His touch was still gentle against the stitches that stood out against the pink skin. It didn’t hurt. 

“Why not?” John breathed, feeling even closer to him than just a moment ago. He could smell the drink, the rabbit and the smoke on his breath. Blue eyes were still fixed on his mouth, fingers clenching in his coat. Pulling him closer. Or was that John’s imagination? Or his poor balance due to his drunkenness? 

_Booze makes things easier._

So, John kissed him. 

There was a sharp intake of breath, and John was dragged in by the edge of his coat. A hand moved to the back of his neck. Dropping the cigarette, he looped his arms around Arthur’s strong shoulders. 

His head was spinning. Dear god, it had been so long. Their stubble scraped together, burning their lips, wet with drink. A small sound caught up in his throat when fingers slid through his hair, scratching softly at his scalp. A shiver slid up his spine at the attention. At the familiarity.

Feeling bold, John pressed his hips up against Arthur’s, bringing a groan out of him. A jolt of excitement pooled in John’s belly. The bigger man was hard. 

Suddenly, there was a series of hysterical giggles nearby and John was shoved back so hard and so quickly that he nearly fell on his arse. 

They looked over just in time to see Karen dragging Sean by the hand to her tent, which they promptly disappeared into. 

John, immediately realizing the weight of what he’d done, looked nervously back at Arthur. He did not look back at him, and stood rigidly. Like a gnarled tree on a day devoid of wind. Whatever it was that had come over the both of them moments ago had been dispelled. 

“Arthur?”

“Don’t.” 

“Arthur, I,”

“I said, _don’t._ ” Arthur growled, batting away the tentative hand that reached out for him. 

“Arthur, please,” 

“Don’t touch me, John, I’m warning you,” 

Taking a step back, John grimaced, looking down at the ground. He hated the haze of alcohol that clouded his brain. Hated that it made him feel brave enough to get himself hurt, again. And in that moment, he hated Arthur.

“You fucking coward,” he murmured lowly.

And then he was quite suddenly on the ground, dazed and in pain. Groaning, he rolled over, gingerly holding a hand to his face. Through blurred vision he saw Arthur stomping purposefully away from him, shaking out his fist. 

Arthur had punched him. 

“Fuck,” John hissed, feeling at his throbbing cheekbone. Nothing seemed broken, but damn, it smarted. Arthur Morgan packed one hell of a punch, even when drunk. 

Swallowing hard, he shakily reached out and picked up the still smouldering cigarette from the grass. Sniffing, and wiping at the water welled up in his eyes from the blow, John dragged himself back to the scout fire. He settled by the flames, concentrating on how they danced. Stewing in his anger at himself and at Arthur. At the foolish feeling of betrayal.

* * *

“Arthur?”

Arthur tensed in his sleep.

“Oy, Arthur.”

Groaning, Arthur picked his head up from his cot and looked over his shoulder. He grimaced when the cool air touched his face and when he recognized the fuzzy feeling in his brain. He was still drunk, and barely awake. 

The fire nearby was dying down, but he could make out the silhouette in the darkness. It was a lean form with long ginger hair and a bowler hat. 

“The hell d’you want, Sean? Go t’bed,” he grumbled.

“I did! Had a proper good time of it too, hehe! Going to bed that is. But then she flung me out of it.” He giggled and then cleared his throat, “Anywho, s’too cold t’sleep on the ground. Come now, we’ll have a cuddle.”

“Uncle gets along jus’ fine sleepin’ on the ground. Go ‘have a cuddle’ with him.” Arthur grunted, turning away from the Irishman, and throwing the blanket back over his nose to keep away the cold.

“Thas ‘cuz he’s passed out drunk.”

“Yer pretty close to passin’ out drunk, yerself, Sean, so you should be just fine. Now, leave me alone.”

“C’mon, Arthur, please? Poor Sean’s a’cold.” 

Arthur waited a long pause, hoping that his visitor would wander off or he’d fall back asleep. He wasn’t in the mood. Not after the night he’d had.

“Arthurrr,” Came a long piteous whine.

“Oh for the love of,” Arthur growled, reaching back to lift up the blankets before thinking. He didn’t really have qualms about being a warm body, especially on a cold night. So long as all involved minded their manners. 

Don’t hog the blankets, no awkward knees bumping into any groins and so on.

Sharing a bedroll with another man had never been a problem. It made the real cold nights bearable. But things had changed when he and John…

Sean quickly slid under the blankets and pressed up against Arthur’s back with a shudder, “Ooh, much obliged, Arthur. Much obliged.”

“Jesus! Your hands are freezin’,” Arthur barked, reaching back to tug his coat down.

“Told ya,” Sean shivered, kicking his feet to get the blanket to cover him properly.

“Quit squirmin’, ya drunken fool.” He threw an elbow back, catching Sean in the ribs.

“Oof! ...Now that was just mean-spirited, old man.”

“Oh, shut up and go to sleep.”

“Will do. Thankee muchly, Arthur. Sweet dreams.”

“I said shut up.” 

Finally the Irishman listened, and grew silent. The crickets weren’t chirping so much on account of the cold and the only noise was the dying fire. As much as Arthur hated to admit to himself, the presence of a warm body against the cold was welcome. 

Something like relief heated his belly, feeling Sean press up against his back. He could feel the young man’s face pressed into his shoulder and his hands crossed against his spine. Perhaps he could just feel knees pressed up behind his thighs. Huddled close for warmth. 

It had been so long...

* * *

“John. John, get up. It’s your watch.” 

John groaned in response

He felt like he’d just gone to sleep. Might have. They’d all stayed up pretty late. He didn’t know what time it had been when he’d stumbled back to his tent from the scout fire.

It had to be somewhere during the eighth round of Ring Dang Do’ around the fire. 

The sharp pain in his face reminded John of what had taken place beforehand.

_Shit…_

He’d kissed Arthur. All the damn whiskey had gotten his courage up. And he’d been punched for it. 

_Goddamnit…_

Stumbling from his tent, John gritted his teeth at the tinge of the early morning light. He rubbed at his eyes, and wished that coffee was on already. Pearson would be asleep at least until dawn. 

He let the flap fall back down behind him and checked the chamber of his rifle. 

Arthur’s tent being right beside his, so John couldn’t help glancing over. Sometimes he would look over in the morning to see the cot vacant. But other times if he was real lucky, he’d see Arthur’s sleeping form, soft blond tufts of hair emerging from the blanket. 

Arthur was miraculously in his cot this morning. 

But he wasn’t alone. John paused. Arthur was lying on his back, one hand resting over his stomach on top of the blanket. He was snoring quietly. 

Tucked into the crook of the other arm was a mess of ginger hair. A lean arm was thrown over Arthur’s chest, freckled face resting peacefully against his collarbone. 

It was Sean. 

Confusion and sense of...hurt came over John. Logically, he knew that Arthur would share a bedroll with anyone if it was too cold to sleep alone out on the move. He’d seen Sean share warmth with him before. 

John used to share a bedroll with Arthur all the time. Hell, he’d shared a tent with him for the first few years after his joining the gang. 

But now Arthur wouldn’t let him near. 

_What if he and Sean are…_

Shaking his head, John walked away to start his watch. Despite his suspicions about Sean fancying men as well as women, he and Arthur weren’t cleaning each other’s rifles...not with Arthur so adamant that any intimacy between two fellers was “unnatural.”

“His daddy must’ve knocked his brains loose or somethin’.” John grumbled, slinging his rifle over his shoulder. But then he sighed, hating himself for the remark even though no one had heard it. It wouldn’t do, insulting anyone’s dead father. Besides, John had no room to talk. He still had faint scars on his thighs from his own father’s beatings.

* * *

Arthur grunted in his sleep, coming awake when he heard a soft, “ _Jaysus_.”

Wearily, he opened his eyes and looked down at the Irishman tucked up against his side. He was warm and comfortable as he could be considering he was sharing a one-man cot. But Sean wasn’t only pressed against his side. He had an arm thrown across Arthur’s chest. And one of his legs was tangled in between his. 

“Damn, Arthur, it’s...I had no idea,” Sean whispered, looking sleepily up at him. His knee moved just so, but it was enough. 

Arthur was hard. 

“Get off me, Sean, you’re still drunk,” he muttered, keeping as still as possible. 

“I could take care of it for yeh,” Sean replied, almost too softly to hear. Arthur stiffened, his jaw setting. “Nobody’d know,” the ginger murmured, the hand resting against his sternum slowly moving beneath the blanket, and downwards. 

Arthur caught the wandering fingers in a bruising grip and said firmly but quietly, “I’ll say it just _one_ more time in case you didn’t hear me. Get. Off. Me.” 

Sean shrugged, “Alright, Arthur. Suit yerself.” The young man untangled himself from the blanket and haphazardly pushed himself from the cot. He picked his hat up off of a nearby crate and set it jauntily upon his head. When he was upright, he put a hand to his temple to right his head from spinning, “Ooh.” Before walking away, he smirked and leaned down, “If yeh change yer mind and yeh need help with that beastie, yeh know where t’find me, old man.” 

“Seriously, Sean. Get the hell away from me, or I’ll give you the beating of a lifetime, you drunken bastard.” 

“ _Now_ yer threatening me with a good time. Tease,” the Irishman chuckled, finally stumbling away.

Placing his hands over his face, Arthur sucked in a deep, fearful breath. _Arthur Morgan you fucking fool...first Lenny...now Sean? How many more people you gonna let find out?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment and/or kudos!  
> Lovely to hear from you!

**Author's Note:**

> Comment and/or kudos!  
> Lovely to hear from you!


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